Apart
by TenderHooligan
Summary: Thirteen years of friendship. Seven years of love. Four years of marriage. Just seven days to threaten it all. Can two people survive just one week...apart? Ron and Hermione. AU, maybe a bit OOC.
1. Prologue

**Introduction:** Real quickly, I want explain what this story is about. It's AU, though totally canon compliant minus the epilogue. But even then, the changes aren't too extreme and will be revealed as the fic progresses.

I got the idea for this fic from Harry/Hermione shippers who point out all the qualities that (on the surface) can at times make it seem like Ron and Hermione are less than perfect for one another. It got me thinking: how would their relationship turn out if those traits remained an issue between them? Would they be able to work through it? Would they stay together if they continued to fight and bicker the way they did as kids, long after it stopped being fun? If Hermione stayed her rigid, critical self, if Ron never outgrew his immaturity and insecurities?

So I think of my portrayal of their characters in this story as a big WHAT IF, and encourage all readers to do the same. Which is why I've also tagged the summary with 'maybe a bit OOC.' I've done this not because I think I've made Ron and Hermione into people that don't fit JKR's portrayal of them, but because I don't want to waste my time debating with reviewers about whether or not Ron would really 'do this' or if Hermione would ever 'say that.' I am writing this story without knowing the ending ahead of time, something that's very exciting for me, and I like having the freedom to let the characters go where they want to.

The whole fic should be about fifteen chapters long, plus an epilogue maybe. It's set over the course of just one week in their lives in September of 2004

**Disclaimer**: I am not JK Rowling. I am not a woman nor English nor rich nor a brilliant writer. And Harry Potter does not belong to me. And honestly I wouldn't want him to as I could never have done as wonderful a job with his story as Jo did.

And thanks to my beta **superfan24** for putting up with my bizarre, angst-fueled mind on yet another fic. She is brilliant. Truly.

* * *

**Apart**

_The falling out of lovers is the renewing of love._

Robert Burton

**Prologue: Saturday Night**

She's in the bedroom when she hears the door of their flat open. She sighs.

"You're late," she calls out.

She hears Ron's voice shout back, "I know."

She fixes her hair and grabs a pair of earrings. "I hate being late," she informs him, looking out of the mirror in front of her as he walks in the room, trying to pull his shirt off without removing a chicken leg from either his hand or mouth.

"I know," he mumbles thickly.

"This whole thing is for you and you're not even ready. If you didn't want to go—"

"I'm sorry, okay?" he says, finally getting the shirt off and swallowing what's in his mouth. He sits on the bed and starts on his trousers, undoing the belt first.

Hermione sighs. "Where were you anyway?"

"With Harry."

She could've guessed. "Doing what?"

"We took Teddy flying. Wanted to bring James but…he's only four months old."

She sighs. At least they have _some_ sense. "Does Andromeda know?"

"Would you tell her if she didn't?"

_No_. "Yes."

"Liar."

He's smirking and it's too much. She can't glare at him effectively from a mirror and she turns to face him.

"I don't know why you had to spend the day with him. We'll see him at brunch tomorrow."

"Yeah, but today was his day off. He only gets four a month, and I'll probably miss the rest."

Boys, that's what they are. Boys who are supposed to be grown men but continue to act like children, as if goofing off with one another is the most important thing they could've done today, even though she can think of a thousand things at home she could use Ron's help with.

"Honestly, sometimes I wonder where I'd be if I'd never met you two."

He's still smirking as he stands and walks toward her, leaving his trousers behind. He tosses the chicken bone at the rubbish bin and misses so it lands on the floor. She winces in disgust and worries if it'll leave a stain.

"I know. You would've gotten ten Outstandings instead of just nine on your O.W.L.s," he said cheekily. "But you'd be even more of a bossy little swot than you are now without me and Harry ('Harry and me' she corrects him) to keep you young. And you'd have married a prat like Percy who probably would've turned out to be a poof or something."

"Did you just call me old?" she asks, knowing that's nowhere close to what he's really said.

"Well, you are."

"And how, exactly, do you figure that?"

"Well you're _are_ turning twenty-four in a few days." She glares at him but he only laughs at her. "I'm not saying you're old. I'm saying you're you." He kisses her. "And I love you." He kisses her again and she lets him this time, encourages him with her tongue as she licks his lips, slides it inside his mouth. They break apart and she's just the slightest bit disappointed. "Even if you're starting to wrinkle."

She stomps her foot in frustration and turns away from him again. "You're incorrigible."

Another laugh. "How was your day, love? Good to have the flat all to yourself? Nice and quiet, yeah?"

_No_. "Yes."

"Get any work done?"

_No_. "A bit."

"That's my girl."

She's about to tell him to finish getting ready when his arms wrap around her waist and he kisses her neck. He's hard (of course) and she can feel him pressing into the crease of her bum.

"Ron, we don't—"

"Is this what you're wearing?" he asks between bites of her neck and she almost forgets to worry about how embarrassing it would be to show up tonight with a necklace of love bites around her throat. _Almost_.

"Yes." The word comes out too much like begging for her liking. "What's wrong with it?"

"I think you should change," he whispers, his breath hot on her ear as one had slides up to squeeze her breast while the other moves down to lift her dress so he can cup her sex, pressing into her through her knickers which are suddenly damp and uncomfortable.

"We don't have time. And you should shower. You smell like—" She's cut off when a moan escapes her throat as he pinches her hard nipple through two layers of clothing and shifts her knickers aside to dip two fingers inside her folds.

"Like freshly mown grass?" he finishes, teasing her. "Maybe you want to help me get cleaned up?"

She's tempted, and can't help herself from grabbing his hair to turn his head and find his mouth with hers once more. "We're already late," she says when they come up for air. He's already circling her clit and pumping into her slowly, teasing her, his dick rubbing against her arse, the friction building dangerously. She grabs his wrists and pulls his hands off her. She thinks better with a bit of space between them. "I've hung your clothes on the back of the door." Twenty-four and she still has to pick his clothes out like she's his mum.

"Who cares if we're late?" he asks.

"I do," she says sternly. "I don't want to have people asking why we're late and have to lie to them."

"Only because you're a terrible liar. You'd just blush and stammer and they'd know exactly why without you having to say anything."

_Exactly_. "Which is why we're not doing this now."

"So…later?" he asks on his way to the shower. She watches his shorts fall to the floor in the mirror and almost turns around to follow that perfect arse into the loo where she can touch it, squeeze it, bite it.

She slides her knickers off and opens the door to grab a clean pair. "If you're good," she relents, knowing he can't see her grin.

* * *

Hermione Apparates into the alleyway, Ron appearing a moment later. He takes her hand to lead her across the street, and she stumbles as he pulls her along, his stride too long, her heels too tall to keep up with him. Ron doesn't notice.

On the stoop Ron goes to press the call button.

"Wait," she says.

He turns to her, his look questioning.

She moves close to him to straighten his collar and tie and she admits Ron cleans up nicely. If only it happened more frequently.

"Hi," he says, and pulls her close when she tries to move away.

"Hi," she says back.

"That dress really does look good on you," Ron tells her, meaning it. "Have I said that yet?" He leans in and kisses her. She laughs, his short stubble tickling her face and reaches around him to press the buzzer, unwilling to be distracted again.

"Yeah?" a voice comes out the speaker.

Ron groans and releases her lips to answer. "It's Ron."

"You got that wife of yours with you?"

"Nah, brought a hooker. Don't mind, do you? Pretty sure she's had all her shots." He turns to Hermione, grinning like the devil, his finger still on the call button. "You did say you're clean, right? Housebroken too?" he asks her.

Hermione pushes him out of the way, not amused. "Please let me up Jude. I promise I'll leave the git outside."

The speaker laughs. "Nah, better bring him up. Someone might come along and grab him if he's left alone and I know you wouldn't want that."

"It'd be a blessing," she says as she hears the lock click. Ron does a great job acting hurt, before making a show of opening the door and bowing to her.

"After you, Milady."

"Why thank you," she says moving inside and he follows.

"What, no tip?" he asks as they climb the stairs to Jude's flat.

"Blame my husband. He's very frugal. Hardly leaves me any allowance."

Ron laughs at the joke. He finally has a bit of money and can't see the sense in holding onto it, buying anything and everything that catches his eye. Of course that leaves her to go searching through his coat pockets looking for receipts to explain where their gold goes each month.

A house elf lets them in and takes their coats.

"You made it!" Jude says, swooping in on them. He's short and stocky, with a strong jaw, dark hair and a widow's peak. He's a Beater. "Well come in, come in. Thank god you're here. Benson's been talking my ear off for an hour. Here, help yourselves to whatever."

"You'll regret that one," Hermione tells him thinking of Ron's bottomless stomach.

"Nah, Coach'll keep him in line."

Ron whistles. "Nice place Jude."

Hermione shoots him a disapproving look but he's too busy looking around the flat to notice. Of course any place is nice to Ron, at least compared to their flat. "You have a lovely home," she tells their host.

"Oh stop," he says in mock flattery, brushing her arm. She smiles. Jude is her favorite of Ron's teammates, past or present. "Something to drink, you two? Where's that elf?"

Hermione opens her mouth but Ron gets there first. "You better be paying the little bugger or this one will have your head."

Jude looks back, having not caught Ron's words. "What? Look, tell me what you want and I'll tell him."

Again Ron speaks for her. "White wine and an Ogden's."

"Thank you," Hermione says sharply after Jude vanishes.

He doesn't catch her tone, or chooses to ignore it. "No problem. C'mon." He puts his hand on her waist and drags her over to coach Benson.

"Ronald, my boy," the overweight wizard says jovially as he notices them. "And the Missus Ronald. Always a pleasure." They've only met once before. "My wife, Lindsay."

Hermione introduces herself, knowing Ron would forget and the women shake hands before Ron raises Lindsay's to his lips and kisses it. _Always the charmer_. Jude arrives, followed by the elf with their drinks a moment later, and Hermione wonders how much Jude _is_ paying him as the five of them start to chat.

"So Hermione, what do you do? You don't look like the rest of these trophy wives and girlfriends I see," Lindsay asks, gesturing around the room.

Hermione doesn't know whether to feel flattered or insulted. "I'm a writer."

"Oh? Anything I might've read?"

She blushes, embarrassed. "Oh, no. I doubt it. It's mostly articles, things for the Prophet and journals. Silly things like that—"

"She's got a book," interrupts Ron.

"Ron," Hermione scolds him quietly, pinching his arm hard to make her point.

"Have I heard of it?" asks Lindsay.

"Probably not. It wasn't particularly well-received—"

"It's brilliant," Ron interrupts again. "And she's working on another. Guaranteed to be a best-seller."

"Yes, well…" She _hates_ the look Lindsay is giving her.

"You must remember to send me a copy. I'm terrible at keeping track of things and it's likely to sell out before I make it to a shop."

"Now Hermione, you must keep an eye on your man here," says Benson, clearly bored with the talk of books. "I need him fit this week."

"Ron's got a wooden leg. Two of them, actually. I don't think Jude has enough liquor here to get him pissed."

"I was talking more about keeping him from gorging himself on cocktail weenies. I've seen his appetite."

"Easier said than done. You should see him at home. I can't keep him away from my cooking. Don't know where he puts it."

"You? Cook?" Ron said, turning to her with surprise and laughing. She pinches him again, but his skin must be made of steel. "Burns water, this one," wrapping his arm around her lovingly. "Quite a talent actually. Never seen anything like it." Hermione's scowl goes unnoticed by the rest.

"So you're the cook in your house?" asks Lindsay with a thin smile. "How _modern_."

"I am when we don't feel like starving," Ron says and all the rest laugh while Hermione gives a small smile and finishes her wine.

"Excuse me. Need to visit the ladies' room. Get me another?" She hands Ron her empty glass before stalking off.

Minutes later, she's smoothing her dress as she leaves the loo, and looks around for where Ron's gotten to with her drink. She finds him standing in a corner chatting up some blonde thing with legs a mile long, sipping a glass of white wine that should've been Hermione's. Her eyes go to work, inspecting, attacking. _Pouty lips, big tits, wearing a napkin for a dress, probably a complete airhead. _Ron's type, in other words. _Fat arse_, she marks gleefully. If only it were true.

She joins them. She stands there almost a full minute before Ron notices.

"Where've you been?" he asks, reaching an arm around her and pulling her close to kiss her on the cheek.

She pries his fingers off her and drops his hand. She waits for Ron to introduce her.

"Hello, I'm Hermione," she says finally.

"Oh _you're_ Hermione," says the blonde, her eyes popping.

"You don't miss a beat, do you?" Hermione remarks.

"Sorry, it's just…you're not what I expected. I'm Clarissa, by the way."

"Pleasure," Hermione says stiffly.

"Ron was just telling me how brilliant your book is. I've never read it but I'll have to pick it up."

"Oh, well, that's nice."

"Hey, need another?" asks Jude, her savior appearing from nowhere and handing her another glass of wine.

"Thanks," she says accepting, happy for the excuse to ignore Ron's spectacle.

"Be right back. Need to run outside for a mo'," he says, holding up a pack of smokes and walking off.

Hermione looks to Ron but he's been reabsorbed by Clarissa's bubbling laugher and shaking bosom. "I'll come with you," she says, catching Jude. He looks at her strangely, knowing how she detests smoking. "I could use a spot of fresh air."

"But Ron—"

"I'm sure he'll survive another minute alone." _I'll bet_.

"Well c'mon," he says, throwing an arm across her shoulders.

Outside, Jude lights up and Hermione leans back against the railing on his balcony, the lights of the city behind her.

"So how's Margaret?"

"She's fine."

"I haven't seen her tonight. How long have you been together again?"

"Four months." _So not long at all_. He takes a drag. "Actually we split last week."

"Oh Jude. I'm sorry." She rubs his arm consolingly. "I liked her."

"S'fine. I'm not too broken up about it. Pain in my arse, she was."

She laughs. "Then why'd you stay with her?"

He shrugs. "Wanted to see if I could do it."

"Do what?"

"Stick it out with a bird. Can't even make it six months with one before she drives me batty. Please tell me it gets easier."

She laughs again. "Easier? You haven't even made it to the hard part."

"Ah, don't tell me that," he says with mock drama, covering his ears. "Don't know how you and Ron manage not to kill each other."

An awkward pause follows as Hermione guzzles half her glass in one go. "So what's her story?"

"Who?" he asks, clueless.

"That woman. Talking to Ron." She nods toward the window.

He strains to look. "Oh her. Clarissa Highwater. She's a writer for Quidditch Weekly. Probably talking to Ron 'cause he's the newest signing. Big news and all since he's, you know…"

_Famous_. "So she'll be in Spain with you?"

"Sure. It's her job." A pause. "Hasn't Ron mentioned her before?"

_No._ "Maybe." Her eyes narrow. "Why?"

"Think she did an interview with him last week. Probably just following up on some things she forgot." She grinds her teeth. "So how's the book coming?"

"What book?"

"The one you're working on. Ron's told me a bit about it"

This surprises her as she hasn't told Ron a thing about it. "Has he?"

"Sure." He takes another puff. "So how's it coming?"

A pause. "Fantastic." She finishes her wine. "Ready for another? I think I need to check on Ron."

Of course it's not _him _she's worried about. Hermione doesn't wait for Jude's answer before heading back inside, drinking in the sight of Clarissa touching Ron's arm as they laugh over something moronic and childish.

_Clearly he's fine._ She turns away from the pair. Now,_ where's that elf with the wine gone to?_

* * *

**A/N: **Well, what you guys think? Remember, this is just a lead-in to the real story. I plan to update every Wednesday, but this fic ranks third after my other fic 'Closer' and real life, so I might not always have a chapter ready. Thankfully I've already got the next 3 written, so we should be set for a while.

I should probably mention the film 'Last Night' starring Keira Knightley and Sam Worthington as the beginning of both that movie and this fic share a lot of similarities (though they deviate rather drastically after that). If you haven't seen it, I encourage you NOT to do so as it could give you the wrong impression of where this story is going.


	2. Sunday Ron

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed the prologue last week. Hopefully this chapter continues to clear things up.

This chapter is dedicated to **ObsessedRHShipper** for politely pointing out a few mistakes with last chapter so I could correct them. The usual kudos to **superfan24 **for her superb beta work. And just a reminder, I am not J.K. Rowling.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Sunday (Ron)**

"Right, well, better find the wife."

"It's just after midnight," Clarissa tells him. "What are you, some old bugger?"

Ron laughs. "Quite the opposite. Ask anyone. They'll tell you I'm just an oversized ten-year-old."

"Ah, so it's nearly bedtime then?"

"'Fraid so. Wife makes the rules. We can't all look as good as you if we don't get our beauty sleep."

She quirks an eyebrow and plays with her wine glass. "Did you just call your wife ugly?"

"What? No! I didn't—" Ron splutters.

"Don't worry. I won't say anything. Wouldn't want to get you in trouble," she adds, running her pinky finger across her bottom lip. He gulps.

He blinks and downs the rest of his drink. "On that note," he goes in for a hug.

She lingers when he pulls away. "See you Tuesday," she whispers to him.

Ron finds the house elf, then looks around for Hermione. He catches her across the room talking to Jude.

"Got your coat love," he says when he walks over. She's laughing much louder than normal at something Jude has said. "Ready to head home?"

"Oh, are you all finished now?" she asks him. There's something dangerous in her tone.

"Uh, yeah. You?"

She answers him by turning to say goodbye to Jude. Ron sees red when she kisses him on the cheek. But then they move apart and he's all smiles and friendly shoves and making quips about Jude giving his arm a good workout once everyone leaves. Hermione elbows him as he helps her with her coat. That means she's upset and thinks he's being crude, but he knows she secretly likes his filthy mouth.

Ron reaches to take her hand. But as his fingertips skirt her wrist, she pulls away, wrapping her arm around herself. He plays it off like he hasn't noticed, sliding his hand along her back and hugging her to him. And after a moment's resistance, she lets him.

They walk downstairs. Outside, Hermione pulls away from him and looks around to see if any muggles are watching.

He catches a whiff of something unfamiliar. "Have you been smoking?" he teases.

She turns around and shoots him a look of disgust before Disapparating, leaving him standing there. He curses, wondering what's upset her now, and follows. She isn't outside their building when he arrives. He unlocks the door with his wand and goes up to their flat.

The door's still locked, but he can hear her moving around inside. He waves his wand, then goes inside.

She's in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water out of the tap. "Thought you told me never to Apparate onto the balcony," he says as she knocks back the glass and refills it.

"I have. About a _million_ times."

"Thought you said it's too dangerous." he says, trying to hang his coat on the rack but missing the peg so it falls to the floor. He doesn't pick it up again. "Said I might not be concentrating and miss the landing and fall four stories and break my neck." He comes to a stop at the counter next to her.

She shoots him a look, unable to speak with her mouth full of water again. She swallows, fills the glass a third time and walks around the kitchen so the counter separates them. "Yes, I said that might happen to _you_. _I _passed my Apparition test first time around, remember? Never splinched myself either, have I?"

_Nope, just me,_ he recalls, rubbing his scarred shoulder absentmindedly. "Well you did have a few tonight," he says as he loosens his tie and starts undoing his shirt buttons.

"Just because you can hold your liquor better than…not my fault I don't weigh a hundred stones…doesn't make you the drink bobby," he catches her muttering.

"Who's Bobby?" Ron asks, clueless.

She rolls her eyes and leaves the room. He follows her to the bedroom and catches her shimmying out of her dress, staring at her with desire. She's practically starkers: no bra, just some little white knickers covering her best bits. Ten years ago he could only dream about seeing her like this. Now it's old-hat. Almost. "Have I done something?" It's a safe bet.

She doesn't answer, walking to her closet to hang it up before grabbing a vest and bottoms from a drawer. He clenches his fist, releases, then goes to his closet and strips.

"Do you know what it's like to hear you say those things, make those excuses to those people?" She's raring to go and coming out swinging.

"What are you on about now?" Ron questions, stripping of his trousers and dumping them in a heap on top of his shirt.

"'She writes books.'" she mocks. "God, it's like you don't even hear yourself. You sound like a bleeding idiot and patronize me like some child all in the same sentence."

"Do you hear _yourself_? You're bloody insane." He scrounges around looking for a shirt.

She isn't listening. "Sometimes I wonder if you ever think before you open your trap."

_More often than you know_.

"God, do you think I care about their approval? Do you even think I want people like that reading my books?" she continues.

"Book," he corrects, mumbling the word.

"Ron, at least have the decency to look at me when you insult me."

He stands and turns around, still shirtless. His eyes go to her nipples, hard and poking through the fabric of the vest, and his mouth waters.

She catches his gaze and lets out a sound halfway between a groan and a scream and walks off. Again. Orders him to face her, then leaves the room. Of course.

He follows back to the kitchen. "Don't act like you don't care when I _know_ you do. You care about _everything_."

"Not _those_ people."

"Oh, you mean my friends?" he asks Hermione as she reaches to open a cabinet.

"You've only known them two months, how good of friends could they be?" She pulls a bottle of whiskey and sets in on the counter.

"At least I have friends," he mutters. He raises his eyebrow as she pours herself a glass, then puts the bottle back. "Thanks, I'd love one too."

She glares. "And I'm sure you _loved_ making me look useless, setting them against me right from the start."

"It's not some conspiracy."

"Why'd you have to tell them I can't cook?"

"Because you can't?" he says, confused.

"And they need to know that, of course."

_What's it matter? _"Look, no one cares that you're not perfect."

"Well thank you for clearing _that_ up. Until tonight I was under the impression that I had to be. At least you came off like the perfect husband. And _that's_ all that matters, right?"

She takes a drink, a big one, and coughs.

He laughs. "Alright there?"

"God. Just because you can cook _doesn't_ make you a grownup, Ron!"

"And what does? Being you?"

"You can't even pick up after yourself. Do you know there's a chicken bone lying on our bedroom carpet right now? And you do know how it got there?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me." They keep circling around the kitchen as they talk and Ron wonders why he keeps chasing her.

She takes another drink, with more dignity than last time. "You treat the world like a playground, Ron, like you're still a lad. Even your _job_ is a game. And a dangerous one. I know you love it. And you're fantastic, really. But what are you going to do in another ten years? Or what if you get hurt and can't play anymore? What'll you do then, hmm? What happens to _us_?"

"You think I haven't thought of all that?"

"Well then _tell_ me. _Tell_ me what your solution is."

"I…I don't know."

"Wonderful. Just _wonderful_, Ron. You realize 'I don't know' stopped being an acceptable answer the day we graduated Hogwarts?"

"Well I guess that rule doesn't apply to me then. I never graduated, remember?"

"Like you would have" she mutters, just loud enough so she knew he'd hear.

He's angry. "I quit the Cannons didn't I? I took the big paycheck and signed with the Tornadoes to give _us_ some security. Long as I finish out the contract we should be set for life."

"Oh don't bother throwing yourself a pity party, Ron. Don't act like you did that for _me _or for _us_. You were tired of no-one noticing you on that second-rate club."

He slams his palm on the counter. She knows better than to joke about the Cannons. _Just like I know not to joke about house elves_. Leaving the Cannons was the hardest decision he'd ever had to make and he's still not sure it was the right one. "Where's this all coming from?"

She pours the rest of the whiskey down the sink and leaves the glass on the counter. And she calls him messy. She's always doing that, leaving glasses and teacups around the flat, forgetting to clean them up whenever an idea hits her. Who does she think puts those away? Certainly not her.

Hermione walks into the bedroom. "She's pretty," he hears her call back.

He follows her. "Who?" She doesn't answer. "Clarissa?" he guesses.

"Yeah. _Clarissa_. Or do you call her _Claire_?"

Ron's incredulous. "You cannot be serious."

"You never mentioned her before."

"Didn't know there was anything to mention."

"Didn't want to is more like it." She finally looks at him. "Did you _really_ think I wouldn't notice?"

"Notice what?"

"You're attracted to her."

He knows it's the wrong thing to do, but he can't help it. He laughs. "You're barking."

"Ron, you spent the whole night talking to her."

"Well you were with Jude," he explains pitifully.

"And you're having secret meetings with her."

"An interview. For my job." _How did she even know that?_

"And she _obviously_ fancies to you."

"You're fucking mental. You _do _know that?"

She laughs, surprising him. "You haven't even _noticed_, have you? You're always clueless when some bird takes a fancy to you."

This stopped being funny two minutes ago. "Do you really think something's going on?"

"I think you'd like there to be."

He doesn't say anything. He's upset, but mostly just confused. She can't really believe what she's saying. _Can she?_

"Well?" she demands.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to admit you fancy her."

A pause. "She's fanciable," Ron admits. She lets out a frustrated moan like a dying cat.

"I _knew _it!"

"No. I didn't say I fancied her. I just said you was fanciable. Y'know, the same way _Harry's _fanciable." His words hang in the air and Hermione looks at him in total horror before grabbing the duvet off the bed and starts walking toward the door.

"Oh and now you're gonna sleep on the couch?" he whines.

"No." She shoves the duvet into his arms, then pushes him out the door. "_You_ are."

"Fan-fucking-tastic," he says as the bedroom door slams in his face. "Guess that means you're going back on your promise of a shag, huh?" he shouts, but the world on the other side of the door is a silent one. He heads to the couch.

He tosses and turns for two hours. His feet hang off the end. He's too hot with the duvet, too cold without it. His arms are too empty and there're no thick curls in his face to tickle his nose while he sleeps.

* * *

Ron gets up, dragging his feet to the bedroom door. He tries the knob. It's unlocked. That one little detail tells him everything.

He goes in. She's lying on his side of the bed, curled into a ball. He kneels down so his face is level with hers. "You awake?"

"No and neither are you," she tells her pillow, burying her face into it.

"Come to bed love."

Her voice is muffled, but of course he can still understand her words. "I _am_ in bed. You're the one who's not allowed here, remember?"

"Then come to the couch. Bed is where you lay your head."

"That's home," she corrects him.

"Yeah but 'home' doesn't rhyme with 'head.'" She groans. "Please? I can't sleep alone."

"You've done it before. And you'll have to all this week."

"And I'll hate every minute of it. It's no good. My feet get cold."

"Get _Clarissa_ to keep them warm then. Her legs probably reach better than mine."

He swallows that one. He doesn't want another row at the moment; can't take another at the moment. "Yeah but she probably doesn't snore like you."

She's indignant. "I do _not_ snore." She does.

He reaches to stroke her hair. "You do love. Like the Hogwarts Express. But I love it. It's like a lullaby: a rattling, wheezing, gasping…" he sees her glare, "…cute, adorable, gentle lullaby. Like phoenix song."

She lifts her head. "Such a charmer." She's smiling, just a little.

"Come on love. You don't even have to fuck me—"

"Oh, how gracious—"

"—unless you want to." He waggles his eyebrows.

"—and don't say 'fuck.'"

He groans when she says the word. "Don't talk like that if you don't want sex."

"Sex isn't going to make this better, Ron."

"It'll help me to sleep." He's finally grinning. "Please?"

"Fine! Get in here."

He climbs in and lies down on top of her before she can escape to her side, smothering her for a moment. He doesn't mean it to be sexual, but can't resist grinding his hips into her bum, and he feels her wriggle back.

He feels her trying to turn over and raises himself off her. She rolls over to look up at him. "I meant _just_ sleep."

"Of course you did." He lowers his mouth onto hers, pulling on her lip with his teeth before letting go. But the moment he does her limbs slide around him like Devil's Snare and trap his body to hers. Her lips are on his lips, his jaw, his neck, urgent and needing. And he complies too willing, his hand squeezing her breast, rolling the nipple that's been begging for his attention all night.

She pulls down his shorts and he sits back to lift her legs and strip her as she giggles. He spreads her legs and falls on her once more, their kisses hard and desperate. And she's so slick, so warm and he slides inside her with ease.

He tries to remember to hold himself up so as not to crush her as he thrusts over and over, but she doesn't let him pull away, her legs wrapped behind his arse, her hands scrabbling across his back, desperate to pull him deeper. "Ron, I need…I…"

He speeds up their rhythm, her quiet moans, their heavy breathing, and the soft slap of skin on skin the only sounds in the dark. He can't see it, but he knows a blush is spreading across her throat and breasts and his lips descend on her again and again.

Ron feels her let go, her walls clenching tight around him and Ron slows, prolonging his own pleasure as he rides her come-down before following her in bliss. It's only taken ten minutes. _A benefit of knowing each other's bodies so well after six years together._

He collapses on the bed and pulls her onto his chest. As they catch their breath, their hands roam across each-other, her fingers tickling his waist, his hand stroking her shoulder and the slope of her breast. They've never needed foreplay, never had the patience for it. But after…after they always have time to touch and tease like this, waiting for round two.

They shift onto their sides. Hermione fits into him perfect as always and she takes his big hand and places it on her breast, above her heart. Ron kisses the back of her head, holding back a sneeze when her curls tickle his nose.

"Do you ever think about it? About being with someone else?" Of course she'd only ask when she's turned away.

"There's nothing going on with Clarissa."  
"I just meant in general. I mean it's-it's normal, isn't it?"

"No. I don't think about it." He doesn't see the point of it. "Do you?"

The second she waits before answering is a lifetime too long for him. "No," she says.

He lifts their hands from her chest and brings them to his lips to kiss her fingers. "I love _you,_ Hermione. Just you."

Ron kisses her fingers again and she shifts to look at him. "So long as you never stop."

"Nothing could ever get me to stop loving you."

They make love again. Ron thinks they'll go slower this time, but Hermione climbs on top, rubbing her slick, heated slit over his cock again and again, teasing him to hardness before sinking down on his length, riding him, her small breasts gently bouncing in his hands. Soon she's just giving these little thrusts of her hips against his pubic bone, grinding her clit and shouting with pleasure while doing nothing for him. He just lays there, his hands kneading her breasts, pinching at her flesh until he feels her walls clench around him, sees her twitch and shudder, crumpling in exhaustion against his chest. His large hands grip her hips tightly, impaling her on his cock over and over, driving into her hard a dozen more times before he comes inside her, straining to let go as quickly as possible, knowing she's desperate for sleep.

They lie down again when they're finished, flushed and sweating on their respective sides of the bed. But in sleep, their bodies creep toward each other once more.


	3. Sunday Hermione

**A/N: **I apologize for the lack of update last week. The chapter was ready, but it hadn't been beta-d and I feel the need to be extra cautious with this story. As always, thanks to **superfan24 **for her help, especially since she's working on this story, 'Closer' AND the sequel to 'Closer.' Not to mention her own fics and..you know...REAL LIFE.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Sunday (Hermione)**

They wake up late and shower together and after a few halfhearted protests she lets Ron shag her against the wall, pushing into her while water runs down their faces, like a thousand forgotten tears. He's rough and fast, and she cries out a few times as much from the pain of his thrusts as from the pleasure. It's payback for last night, she knows, and doesn't complain when he comes first and he has to finish her with his fingers.

"Almost ready love?" he asks impatiently as she tries to tame her hair before it dries into its usual bird's nest.

"Not _yet_," she tells him.

"It's just my family, Hermione. No-one cares."

_But I do_. "That doesn't mean I can't look presentable."

"Why don't you just cut it? Like you did that one summer. I thought it looked good like that."

She turns to look at him, surprised. "I thought you liked my hair long?" She keeps it like this for _him, _after all. And if he doesn't appreciate it…

"I do. I just…if it's easier for you…"

She looks at him, trying to discern if he's lying. She gives up, ties her hair back and grabs her purse. "Well, let's get this over with."

"You make it sound like detention with Snape," Ron laughs.

"Hardly." _This is much worse._

* * *

"Victoire. Victoire! Give zat back to Molly. That eez her dolly. Yours eez right 'ere," Fleur shouts across the living room.

"I swear I haven't gotten more than twenty minutes of sleep in a row since Roxanne started teething," says Angelina. "_Never_ stops fussing the poor girl. I don't remember Fred _ever _being this bad."

"Just be thankful you only have to deal with one at a time," Mrs. Weasley replies, bouncing Louis on her knee.

"But I've got two, haven't I? Fred always wants to be held too. Can't stand to let someone else get the attention."

"It eez ze same with Victoire. And she eez getting to big to hold."

"That's because you spoil the poor girl. You can't say no to her."

"Neither can Bill. He eez even worze than I am." They all giggle.

"Just you wait Ginny. The first one is always the worst," Angelina says and the other women murmur their agreement.

Hermione listens to the women, her sisters and mother-in-law, while casting longing glances toward the kitchen and the yard beyond where the men were playing Quidditch. Every week it was the same thing: familiar complaints that ran around in circles, the same advice passed around as if each woman was the sole expert on raising children and knew best, and Hermione having nothing to contribute but sit there, smiling.

_At least Charlie and Rachel aren't here yet. And Percy and Audrey have other plans so they couldn't stay, even if they dropped Molly and Lucy off for the day._

"Molly, ou are not using ze heavy cream?" Fleur asks, absentmindedly touching her only slightly less-than-flat stomach.

"You'll have to ask the boys dear. Harry and Ron wanted to cook this week to give me a break. I told them it was no trouble, but they insisted."

"Men cooking," Fleur says with a bit of disgust. "Ze do not understand ow 'ard it eez for a woman to keep her figure, especially after children."

"They must think we burn it all off running after the little ones," says Angelina.

"That's assuming they're old enough to run," Ginny says, passing James to his Aunt Hermione. It always feels like they're playing a game of hot potato, babies getting passed around like plates of pasties so everyone gets a turn. Hermione lays James against her shoulder.

"You need to let him breath," advises Mrs. Weasley. "Don't smother him." Hermione shifts James around awkwardly to give him some air.

"It's alright," Angelina tells Hermione, patting her arm patronizingly. "It'll be easier when it's your own child. Speaking of…?" They all look to her expectantly.

"Ron and I just aren't there yet," Hermione says, her smile failing at being convincing, though the others don't notice.

"Well I don't see what the hold-up is. Now's the perfect time since you're not working."

"Hermione works, Mum," Ginny says, defending her friend.

"From _home_. She's still there all day, aren't you dear? And if not now, when? You've been married for ages."

_Four years. Well almost four. Is that really that long? We're still children practically. Well, Ron is at least," _she thinks, snorting quietly.

Charlie and Rachel Floo in and everyone makes a fuss. "Can you take him?" Hermione asks Molly who accepts the squirming James eagerly. "Need to visit the ladies."

She follows Charlie as he heads out to the field and finds Ron and Harry in the kitchen. If you'd told her five years ago that her boys would rather be fixing brunch than playing Quidditch, she wouldn't have believed it. But Ron loves it. _Probably because it's one of the only things he's good at. _And Harry had been the one to teach Ron in the first place, thanks to his many years as cook and maid for the Dursleys.

Ron's popping sticky buns into his mouth like they're Bertie Bot's, occasionally chucking one at Harry who's trying to catch them in his mouth. The seven buns she sees on the floor lets her know he hasn't been very successful.

"Ronald! Don't you remember what your coach told you last night?"

"Uh, no," her husband says thick through a mouthful of sugar.

She sighs, and rubs her temple. "Well I'm _sure _you remember you have the tournament this week."

"Which is why I need to fuel up. Three matches in five days, practices in between. I'll need lots of energy."

"That's assuming you guys make it to the finals," says Harry.

"Who're you talking to?" Ron says, grinning.

"So Ron told me about your little _adventure _yesterday," Hermione tells Harry, fixing him with a stern look.

"I'd hardly call a little fly an adventure, love," says Ron, now trying to choke down two sausages in one go.

"Try and save some for the rest of us, sweetheart," she says, and she feels vindicated when Ron chokes at her term of endearment.

He glowers. "Thought I told you never to call me that."

Harry laughs. "And when has she ever listened to you, mate?"

Ron shrugs. "Never."

"I _do _too!"

Now both boys laugh. "Face it, mate," says Harry. "She's got you under her thumb."

"Like _you're_ any better."

"Oi! Ginny and I work it out fine. We have a give-and-take relationship, thank you."

"Only because she's too busy with James to order you around," says Hermione smugly.

"Lucky," she hears Ron mumble.

"Aren't you two almost done with brunch yet?"

"It's ready actually. Just waiting for George and them to finish their game," Ron says.

"Work up an appetite on your run this morning?" Harry asks her.

"I know I did," Ron says.

"You're always hungry," Hermione says. Ron just shrugs.

"You? You mean you actually exercised when a broom wasn't involved?" Harry laughs.

"Don't be thick. We had our own little workout last night…and this morning."  
"Ronald!" Hermione blushes, but the boys just laugh. She remembers a time when such talk would've had them all flustered, a time when Ron wouldn't _dare_ talk like that, especially not in front of _her_. Now they joke and it's just her that gets embarrassed. It was a better time.

"So are you two trying?" asks Harry excitedly.

"No!" they both hurry to answer, before having the decency to look sheepish.

"Right, sorry," says Harry. They stand around awkwardly until Hermione can't take anymore.

"Well I better get back," she tells them, fixing Ron with a look that's supposed to let him know she's _dying _in there with those women and their talk of hard nipples and baby toes and stretch marks. 'You better get your brothers to stop wasting time with Quidditch so we can eat and get out of here' it's supposed to tell him, but his attention is now on some toast slathered in marmalade and he misses it.

She sighs When did she become the odd-woman out in their trio? She leaves the kitchen, composing herself for another onslaught of babies. _Back into the lion's den._

* * *

It's nearly evening by the time they get home. That's the problem with going to the Burrow; they end up stuck there for ages, far longer than necessary. They don't have the excuse of children to get them out the door and always have to wait for the rest of the lot to pack up first.

"Good of Charlie to make it. Glad he found some time to come visit Mum and Dad," Ron says as he plops onto the couch and turns on the telly.

"Mmh hmm," she says, going to the bedroom and changing into sweatpants and one of Ron's old shirts, already exhausted and decided not to leave the flat for the rest of the day.

"And how 'bout their news? Pregnant. Blimey."

"Yes, how about that," she says bitterly, though Ron doesn't catch her tone. Now they really are the only ones left.

"He and Rachel have only been married a year. Must be going at it like Puffskeins in heat."

Hermione blanches. "I'd rather not discuss your brothers' sex lives if it's all the same." _I get enough of that from their wives. _"And did it ever occur to you that they might've just _wanted _a baby? I mean Rachel _is_ turning thirty."

"Well it might've been an accident."

"Babies don't happen by accident."

"Bollocks. I bet it happens all the time. You know, Bill was an accident I think."

"_Pregnancies _happen by accident. Not _babies_."

Ron looks at her strangely and she wonders why they're even talking about this. "Are you on about those absorption things muggles have?"

"_Abortions_, Ronald. And yes."

He nods and goes back to the telly. "No one in my family would do that. Mum wouldn't let them, even if they wanted to."

"I don't see how it's her decision. I mean if she made the rules, we'd all follow her example and pop out seven of them before we turn thirty." She looks over but Ron isn't listening. He's banging on the remote, trying to get the screen to show something besides static.

"Here," she says helpfully, taking it from him and putting on a cartoon she knows he likes to watch. It takes his mind of Quidditch, helps him forget his nerves.

"I can do it," he says, wresting the remote back from her.

She laughs. "We've had that thing for five years. I think we both know it's a lost cause if you haven't figured it out by now."

"I know how it works," Ron snaps. "I'm not stupid. I just have trouble sometimes now that you've hooked up that vee see are."

_DVD actually_. "Don't be like that. I never said you were stupid."

"Well you were _thinking _it."

"Learned Occlumency, have you?" She laughs, but Ron isn't amused, his eyes on the screen. "Look, I was only trying to help."

"Yeah. Thanks."

_Well if he wants to pout, who am I to stop him? _

She gets her bag and pulls out everything she needs for the article she's working on for Gladrags about their new Veela-lined winter cloaks and sets to work. She only has another two-hundred words to go. _Maybe if I finish, I can spend some time on the book,_ she thinks optimistically.

She's at it just a few minutes when she feels Ron's eyes on her. She looks up and feels a shiver of excitement run over her, remembering all the times she used to catch him watching her studying back in school.

"Do you need something?" she asks, putting her quill down.

"Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"Do your work in the kitchen. Your stuff gets everywhere when you work out here." She looks and sure enough the counter is already covered in books and notes, folders and magazine clippings. "I thought it was for fixing sandwiches, not writing your bloody articles."

She holds back the instinctive retort. "Are you hungry? I could fix you something," she offers. He shakes his head. "I didn't know it bothered you."

"It doesn't. It's just…I don't see why you don't use the office. I mean what's the use of Harry and I," _Harry and me_, "lugging that monster of a desk up here if you don't use it?"

"I…" _I like being near you, _she thinks. _And you're leaving for six days and I won't get to see you and…_"I'm sorry. I didn't know I was disturbing you."

"You weren't. Just…seeing you work while I lie here on the couch makes me feel like a lazy tit, like I should be doing something."

Actually there are a million things she can think of for him to do: there's a half-inch of dust on everything in the flat and a sink full of dishes, clothes that need a wash or to be mended and a leaky showerhead she noticed this morning while Ron was buried inside her. But for once she doesn't want to tell him these things, doesn't want to nag him. He's leaving in the morning and she _is_ going to miss him.

She quickly packs everything up again and walks over to the couch. "You cooked brunch, which I never thanked you for." She leans over and kisses him gently. "Besides, you shouldn't be doing anything except relaxing."

"Bloody difficult when I can't hear the telly over the whirr of your brain, love," he says jovially, pleased she isn't harping at him. She takes the remote and shuts off the telly. "Hey! I was watching that."

"No, you were watching me."

"Yeah, well…not my fault you're more interesting than the shite Muggles come up with."

"Then I guess that makes it _my_ job to make sure you're _relaxed._" He looks at her in confusion but she doesn't explain, only takes the duvet from last night and lays it on the floor at his feet before kneeling in front of him and undoing his belt and zip.

"Hermione—"

"Shh." She takes his cock out and begins stroking him. It only takes a few seconds before he's hard and she lowers her mouth, kissing it gently before sliding her tongue up and down the underside of his shaft, one hand stroking the head as she fondles his bollocks with the other.

"God. Hermione, you're incredible," he pants.

She lets him go with a wet 'pop', smirking. "Always the tone of surprise."

He opens his mouth to reply but she takes him inside her mouth again, trying to relax her throat to swallow as much as she can.

Her lips tingle from his heat as she sucks him off, her hand pumping at the base where her mouth can't reach. And she feels his hips start to rise, gently trying to thrust into her, but she holds him back with a hand on his stomach.

She draws in her cheeks, tightening her mouth around him as she slides him down her throat, occasionally grazing him gently with her teeth the way he likes. She feels him pull the hair away from her face to watch and she smiles the best she can with a mouth full of cock.

"Fuck! Hermione! If you don't stop I'm gonna…"

This only spurs her on. He always feels the need to warn her, as if he thinks she doesn't _love _having him begging and helpless, as if she isn't already creaming herself knowing he's about to…

Ron lets go, filling her mouth with his seed which she gulps down with relish, loving the taste of him.

She continues stroking his as his length softens, licking his cock clean until he grabs her chin and pulls her to his lips, capturing them in a searing kiss that knocks her flat.

Ron takes advantage, pushing her to the floor and climbing on top of her, one hand cradling her head, the other sliding her sweats and kickers off with frantic tugs. She giggles as he sits up, fighting him, pretending like she isn't desperate for her own release. His large hands grab her hips, lifting her as he lies back, sliding her bum up his chest to sit on his face.

"Oh…_Ron_," she moans as his fingers spread her lips and his tongue darts into her wet snatch. She rocks her hips against his face, encouraging him deeper, her left hand crawling beneath her shirt to reach up and play with her breast, pinching and pulling with need.

She squeels as his lips close around her bud, his tongue teasing her over and over, swirling around her.

"Ron…I need…your…" She gaps as he starts pumping into her with two long fingers, knowing exactly what she wanted to ask for. She's already close. She was close just from getting _him _off and now he's driving her insane, whimpering as he hits that spot deep inside her over and over when suddenly everything stops.

She's about to protest, still rocking her hips against the air when he lifts her up and flips her and resumes his ministrations. "God! Ron!" she screams, thrusting against him even more forcefully, her hands digging into his strong thighs to use as leverage.

A third finger joins the first two, stretching her wide, his tongue lapping at quim, occasionally getting a stray lick on her arse as she bucks wildly.

Her lips are on his cock again, already stiff again, when she lets go, clenching around his fingers and coating his face with her juices.

She collapses, panting, his cock against her face

"Hermione," Ron groans. "In-inside you," he pleads. _As if I'd complain_. He sits up, pushing her onto her stomach, her face pressed to the carpet as Ron climbs on top of her, rubbing his hardness against her still-tender lips.

"It's not nice to tease," she gasps breathlessly.

"You want something else?" She can _hear _his smirk.

"I want-I want…"

"Say it love. You know I love it when you say it."

"Your _cock_ Ron. I need your cock."

With that he thrusts inside her, catching her by surprise even though she knew it was coming.

"That wasn't so hard now was it?" he teases, setting a slow pace with his thrusts.

_Feels plenty hard to me_, she thinks, amazed at just how _good _it feels to have him inside her.

They've done this a million times, and she smiles as she wonders what their guests would think if they knew every inch of their flat has been the site of their proclivities at one time or another—most of them more than once. She wonders if they're the only couple for whom shagging in the actual bedroom is out of the ordinary.

She loves this position, how deep she can take Ron into her like this, how each thrust makes her feel like he might split her in two. She can feel another orgasm building inside her already and wonders if he's even close.

"Fuck, I love you like this," Ron pants. "You're so wet, so tight…"

"For you," she whimpers. "Always, only for you." He snakes a hand between her stomach and the floor, and fingers her bundle of nerves, setting her on fire with frantic circles as he pounds into her. His mouth is on the back of her neck, biting and scraping and when he sucks on _that _spot below her left ear, she cums, her walls clenching around him.

It doesn't take much more before Ron cums, a few more agonizingly slow thrusts and he's spilling into her with a few quiet grunts. She lies there, enjoying the weight of him pressing her into the floor, his softening cock still inside her.

Ron rolls off her and pulls her to his chest to cuddle, both of them panting and red-faced.. "Sorry love," he says, kissing the crown of her head. "Didn't mean to smother you."

Honestly, she wouldn't care if he had. She can feel their combined fluids leaking out between her legs and it's _almost _impossible to care about anything except the warmth of Ron's body next to hers. But a small part of her can't help but feel a little disappointed that she's been denied the chance to look into his eyes as he let go inside of her, a sight no-one but her is allowed to see. She drifts off, wondering how long it would be before she would see it again.

* * *

**A/N: **And slowly things are being revealed. Hopefully each chapter sheds a bit more light on how and why this story deviates from canon and explains Ron's and Hermione's relationship.

Next chapter: Ron leaves for Spain.


	4. Monday Ron

**A/N: StarTrek10** brought up a really good question in a review asking "Why in both of [my] stories [does] Hermione think so little of Ron?" And I want to answer it here.

I won't talk about 'Closer' here because that's a completely different story, but as for 'Apart'…well she doesn't. Hermione wouldn't like someone she didn't think much of, she wouldn't be friends with this person and certainly wouldn't marry this person.

However, I noticed that while both Ron and Hermione suffer from insecurities, Ron is more prone to internalize these problems in the last three books (blaming himself, even when he takes his anger or frustration out on others), while Hermione externalizes her problems, trying to find fault elsewhere. This is my opinion and is based on my reading of the books and in no-way fact. But it definitely colors the writing of this fic.

Think: when things go wrong in their marriage, Ron will more often than not blame himself. Hermione on the other hand, looks to someone or something else to blame, so terrified of not being perfect (or even disbelieving that she can make a mistake). Now these are scripts and so of course they don't ALWAYS hold true. But it is the source of why, when Hermione is ticked or feeling down, she often channels that anger at Ron. Ron is an easy target: he's around Hermione all the time, he is hard on himself, and as much as I love the guy, has a limited skill set. Even in this story where he's a pro-Quidditch player, there's the question of whether it's really his own skills or his previous fame from the war that's bringing him attention.

As for the second part of the question, at times I imagine Hermione does think it's illogical that she's with Ron. I am sure he doesn't come close to her girlish notion of 'dream-husband' (that would be Lockhart if he wasn't a smarmy liar), and I have no doubt some of the things he does would make her want to pull her hair out (I'm sure Molly and Lily think/thought the same of Arthur and James at times too, for the record). Hermione is a person who prefers to think rationally, but there's nothing rational about love or emotions. And while they have some deep-set similarities, on the surface they are very different people who enjoy very different things.

I know this often puts Hermione in a bad light (in both my stories). But it's my understanding that Hermione IS crueler than Ron in canon. The worst insults Ron throws at her in the books are calling her a nightmare (before they're friends), a know-it-all (which PoA tells us EVERYONE does, Ron simply does it with more frequency), and insinuating that she couldn't get a date in GoF. Compare this to Hermione who calls him an idiot, thick, and pathetic, tells him to shut up, says wracking his brains will only take a few seconds, implies that he isn't good at Quidditch (when she's trying to make him jealous with Cormac), calls him an insensitive wart and says he has no emotional depth. And she actually physically abuses him twice. Not only that, but look at the number of positive comments Ron makes to Hermione's face versus the number of times Hermione compliments Ron when he's around to hear. I guarantee you Ron wins by a landslide. Ron might tease her more often, but his words are never as harsh as Hermione's and he does a better job in giving her positive feedback to counterbalance the negative.

Again, I think Hermione cares deeply for Ron when she says these things in the books, and she loves him in this fic. But as this fic is meant to explore how Ron and Hermione would end up if their 'issues' never went away, her harsh treatment of Ron is going to be part of this story.

Just to reiterate, I don't own Harry Potter. And **superfan24 **is awesome. That is all.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Monday (Ron)**

"You've packed your trainers?"

"Yup."

"And some _nice _shirts in case you go out?"

"Hermione, these guys are _Quidditch _players. _If _we go out, it'll just be for some manky pup grub."

"The _Cannons_ were like that, Ron. This is the_ Tornados_. They have nice flats and elegant dinner parties. And all their real teeth. Besides, you might need to talk to the press. You don't want to look like a slob when everyone's taking your picture."

He wants to be upset with her for talking about his old teammates like that, but she's right. They were a bunch of slobs, which was part of the reason he'd felt so at home with them. _Before I turned traitor and left_. Besides, he's a bit pleased that she thinks people would even want to take his picture.

"Yes Mum," Ron teases, and goes to the closet to grab a few shirts. At the very least it'll make her happy that he took them.

"_Ron_, you're getting them all wet." She grabs the shits from him and starts folding them far more neatly than he would've. "Honestly, you'd think a grown man would know how to dry himself off after a shower." He wags his head, splattering with water from his hair and she fakes outrage. He wraps his arms around her, dampening her nightgown and kisses her. She shoves him off after a moment. "Alright," she says, laughing. "I've fixed you some breakfast. Why don't you get something to eat while I finish packing for you?"

"You're too good to me," he says and goes to the kitchen and wolves down the soggy eggs and toast—only slightly burned.

"Do you want me to come see you off?" she asks, joining him a moment later.

"Mnff," he says through a mouthful of eggs, before choking it down. "No. Don't want to keep you from your work. Thanks though."

"I don't mind," she says, sounding hopeful.

What's the point of it, of her having to get dressed and ready just to come say goodbye? Besides, he'd rather tell her here, where it's just the two of them, rather. "I don't think there's time for me to wait for you to get ready, love." She nods slowly. He cups her chin and raises her lips to his and kisses her tenderly, the way his mum still kisses his dad after thirty-six years of marriage. It's how he knows they'll be together forever.

They lean their foreheads together, both their eyes closed, soaking in these last moments. "Did you remember your wand?" she asks.

He smacks his head. "Knew there was _something_," He says running to the bedroom to grab it. "What would I do without you?" he says, smiling as he comes back and finds her waiting at the door to the flat.

"Well you're the one who told me where I'd be without you. What was it? I'd be married to some poof or something?"

"Right," he says, kissing her again, trying to burn an imprint of her lips onto his. "Guess you owe me one, huh?"

She smiles wickedly. "I'll try and think of _some way _to repay you for when you get back."

He groans with longing, already missing her. "Maybe I should stay…"

"And then what would happen?" She laughs. "They need you."

"And I need _you_," he says, speaking the truth. He sees her eyes fill with tears. "Hey," he says consolingly, pulling her into a tight embrace. "It's only a couple of days. I'll be back before you even start to miss me."

"But I miss you already," she says, her words muffled into his chest.

"I'll come back," he tells her, stepping back to look into her eyes, still glistening in the soft morning light. "I always do. It's one of the things I'm good at remember?"

She nods. "The best."

"Well you're always so…_welcoming_, it'd be hard not to." Her laugh is wet and she wipes her eyes. "I left you a present on the bed. But no peeking before Thursday," he tells her, trying to sound serious. _As if she'd ever peek_.

"I can't believe you'll be gone for my birthday."

"Well, we'll just have to celebrate when I get back, yeah?"

They kiss again. And again. And again; their lips trying to stay connected each time even as their bodies pull them apart as Ron backs out of the door.

"Wish me luck?" Ron says finally, knowing he needs to hurry to catch the Portkey.

"I love you," she tells him and they both smile. It's all the luck he will ever need.

* * *

"D'you think coach forgot we have a match tomorrow?" Jude asks Ron as they leave the locker room and head toward the barracks the team is staying in.

"What're you complaining about?" Ron complains. "_You're_ not the one who spent two hours getting pummeled by Quaffles and Bludgers."

"Yeah but my arm feels like it's about to fall off. Besides, you've faced worse than Bludgers, haven't you?" Ron shoots him a look. "In the war, all that stuff in Hermione's book."

_Right. Her book._ "That was a long time ago."

"Well you and her were the smart ones, getting out as soon as it was over. I can't believe your mate Potter went into the Aurors."

"What're you sayin'?" Ron asks, a slight edge to his voice.

"Easy there, Weasley. I'm just surprised he went back for more."

"Harry wanted to make a difference. Kingsley needed help and Harry was the most qualified."

"I'm not saying it's a bad thing. Just would've thought he'd be done sticking his neck out for everyone else. I mean he did more than his fair share, didn't he?"

Ron nods absentmindedly. Most days he's happy for Harry, proud of him for continuing to fight the good fight. But the times when he comes back from a mission with a new scar or a freshly-mended ribcage, a small part of Ron felt guilty, knowing he should've been there to cover Harry's back, wishing he was there fighting alongside his best mate.

Jude pulls out a fag and offers one to Ron. "Come on, wifey ain't here to catch you."

"She'll still smell it on me a week later," Ron declines. "Nose like a niffler, that woman."

Jude lights up. "So why didn't you go in with Potter anyway?"

Ron had known the question was coming. "Had to help my brother George out with his shop. My brother Fred—his twin—died in the war. Thought I owed it to him to give him a hand for a while. By the time he didn't need me anymore it just seemed too late, you know?"

Jude nods and slaps Ron on the back. "Smart man. Much better compensation for Quidditch. And a helluva lot more fun than dodging curses, I expect."

Ron opens his mouth, unsure whether to agree or not.

"Hey there, stranger." Both men look up to see a leggy blonde approaching them.

"Hi Clarissa," Jude says, sounding eager.

"Hey," Ron tells her. "I thought you said you weren't coming 'till tomorrow."

"Have to interview all the other teams and their coaches. These international tourneys are always big deals. Boss wants to make sure I'm _extra thorough _with my coverage." She said this while looking directly into Ron's eyes, causing him to shift uncomfortably under her gaze. "You boys coming from practice?"

"Yup," says Ron."

"Thank Merlin," Jude sighs. "I swear coach was _trying _to make sure we're exhausted for the match tomorrow."

"Oh it's just the Sabres. You'll be fine," Clarissa tells them, waving dismissively.

"Yeah?" Ron asks, curious. "You see them? How do they look?"

"Well I just came from their practice. Should be total pushovers for you. _Everyone _knows the Portuguese League is a total joke."

"Well that makes me feel better," says Jude.

"So what've you two got planned for the rest of the evening?"

"Trying to shake off the post-Portkey hangover I've got," Ron tells her. "And Jude's going to give his arm a good workout in his bedroom. Apparently it's a little _weak_." He sniggers and Clarissa laughs.

"Well your arms look good and fit. You must work them out _all the time_," she says mischievously and Jude guffaws with laughter.

"_Hey_! I'm married, remember? My wanking days are behind me."

"I reckon you'll go through a bit of a relapse this week," says Jude, still chuckling. "Careful not to overdo it. Don't want you to strain something." He cracks up again over his own joke and Ron growls at him.

"Well I was going to ask if you wanted to do the interview," says Clarissa, fixing a pointed look at Ron, "but if you're going to be _busy_…"

"No!" Ron assures her. "I'm not planning on-I wasn't…that sounds good," he says finally.

"Great. Well I was going out for a bite to eat. Care to join me?"

_Oh_. "Actually, I'm not really hungry." Jude fixes him with a look of disbelief.

"Well we can just do it when I get back? I'll just swing by your room," she tells him.

"Sure," says Ron, suddenly wondering if this is worse than having dinner with her. "Think I'll go kip for a bit, rest up for the interview," he says.

"Alright. I'll see you later then," she tells him, rubbing his arm before walking off, both men watching her.

"Since when are _you_ not hungry?" Jude asks the moment she's out of earshot.

"Since my wife became paranoid," Ron mumbles quietly, heading to his room, ignoring Jude's look of confusion.

* * *

"So what got you interested in Quidditch in the first place?" Clarissa asks him from her spot on his bed. They've been talking for hours, but he hasn't seen her take down a single note. It's late and they're alone and she's sitting on his _fucking bed_ and he can't stop wondering what Hermione would think if she could see them right now.

"My brother, Charlie-well, actually my uncles, Fabian and Gideon played when they were in school before they went to fight in the last war. They died when I was little so I don't remember them, but I grew up hearing my Mum tell stories about them. Think she liked remembering them that way, and not…" _not how they died_. Actually, hearing all those stories used to bother him. They'd just been two more people in his family that he would never measure up to no matter what he achieved. They'd been top of their class, Quidditch stars, and had died bloody heroes.

But now he understood why his mum had always talked about them. They all did the same thing with Fred now.

"Would you stop that?" Clarissa asks.

"What?"

"_That_." She points and he sees that he's wearing a path in the shag carpet. "You're pacing is making me antsy."

"Sorry," Ron says abashedly. "Must've picked it up from Hermione. She can't ever seem to sit still unless she's got her nose buried in a book. Always has to be doing something, even if it's just walking."

"Well come over here before you drive me insane." She pats the bed and Ron takes a seat on the edge, as far from her as possible. She scoots a bit closer. "So, what were you saying about your brother?"

_Is she deliberately changing the subject every time Hermione's name comes up?_ he wonders, before laughing to himself. _Of course not. She's a professional. She isn't interested in me like that. Bloody woman's got ME paranoid now too._

"Well Charlie…he was a natural. Took to a broom like it was an extension of his body. And I always looked up to him—well him and my brother Bill. They're the oldest, so I think the rest of us wanted to follow in their footsteps. Only Bill is sort of a genius, and I'm, well…_not_." He laughs. "So I guess I thought it'd be easier to try and be like Charlie."

"You seem plenty clever to me. Good marks in school, prefect, an offer to join the Aurors right after the war."

Ron's ears turn pink. "You've done your homework on me."

She smiles and shifts closer to him. "I told you; I'm _very _thorough in my work. I like to know my targets inside and out, what makes them tick, what fuels their…_passion_."

She puts a hand on his knee and Ron's eyes widen to the size of crystal balls. _Is she making a pass at me? _"So I'm a target then?" he asks, his throat suddenly quite dry.

She grins wickedly and nods. "And you should know I _always _get what I aim for."

Ron gulps, and then gives a fake yawn. "Aah. Sorry. Must still be bushed from practice earlier."

"I thought you laid down for a kip earlier?"

"I did," he backtracks nervously. "I just have trouble sleeping whenever I'm away from home." _And Hermione._

She takes her hand off his leg and presses down on the bed while Ron breathes a sigh of relief. "I don't doubt it. The rooms they sticky you with are complete shite. You think the team could afford better rooms for you."

"They probably can," Ron tells her, able to think again now that she isn't touching him. "Guess they'd rather spend the money on better broomsticks than bedding. Can't say I disagree with them, even if they do give me a crick in the neck." He rubs it for emphasis.

"The room the magazine set me up with is _much _nicer. Almost nicer than my flat." She giggles and despite himself Ron enjoys the sound of it. "You should come by and see it when we finish up the interview."

"You mean we'll have to do this _again_?"

She scoffs and places a hand to her chest, drawing Ron's eyes to her tits. Her large, soft, _magnificent _tits. "I'm hurt Ron. If I didn't know better I'd say you didn't like me."

"I like you," Ron says eagerly, before catching his admission. "I mean…I like you just fine," he says awkwardly. _Yeah, that was much better, _he chides himself.

"I thought so," she tells him, smiling. They're so close, _too close_, he realizes.

"Can you excuse me? I need to make a call."

"No problem," she tells him, lying back onto the bed, her tits even more noticeable now. He goes out into the hall and pulls out the mobile Hermione bought him years ago, shutting the door behind him. He still doesn't understand how to work the blasted thing, but Hermione programmed it for him so he only needed to press one number to ring the flat, and not even he could mess up something so simple.

It rings and rings and rings for what seems like forever.

"Hi—"

"Hey love!" Ron says quickly. "Just thought I'd call and—"

"—you've reached Hermione and Ron. We're not in right now, but if you leave us a message, we'll be sure to get back to you. Ta."

"Bloody recording," Ron says, hanging up. _Where could she be anyway? At Harry and Ginny's? With her parents? _He checks his watch. He hadn't realized it was _that _late. _Probably in bed_.

He fumbles with the thing for a few minutes, trying to see if he can figure out how to call Hermione's mobile, but can't seem to remember her number. He hears a door open and turns to see Clarissa leaving his room.

"Hey, you've been out here a while so I thought I'd come check on you."

"Right," Ron says, suddenly glad he failed to reach Hermione. If he'd been talking to her and she heard Clarissa's voice… "You don't know how to work these things, do you?"

She frowns. "Sorry. Never understood Muggle teckonogy myself."

Ron sighs. "You and me both. Guess I'll try and Floo her tomorrow."

"Think it's no good. I'll have to try tomorrow."

"You can come by mine, if you want. If you can't find a fireplace in the barracks I mean."

"That's really…uh…_nice_ of you."

"I can be _very _nice when I want to be." Her eyes flash, or maybe it's just the light. "Well I think we'll leave off for the night. Don't want you exhausted for the game tomorrow."

"Thanks," Ron says, not caring how relieved he must sound, knowing that he doesn't have to go back into that room with her.

She steps closer. He goes for a handshake but she gives him a hug instead, leaving him with a kiss on the cheek. "Good luck tomorrow," she tells him. Ron smiles and goes back into his room, collapsing on the hard mattress, ready for a wank and a long night of cold feet.

* * *

**A/N:** Sad note, I'm off on holiday next week so there won't be a new chapter. But in two weeks, we'll get Hermione's take on Ron leaving and what keeps her from answering Ron's. Also no offense to my 20ish Portuguese readers :)


	5. Monday Hermione

**A/N: **First, my deepest apologies for the incredible delay in updates since the last chapter. Between going on holiday, returning to real life (which has suddenly gone into a state of flux for me), and trying to finish 'Closer' while re-editing the entire fic, 'Apart' has suffered greatly. So thanks to everyone who has stuck it out and waited patiently (or impatiently) for an update. Because here it is, at long last. Please note that it hasn't been beta'd yet, so there might be some changes coming in the next week or so.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Monday (Hermione)**

She wakes up to the sight of his armpit. He smells of sweat and sex and _man_, with just a hint of cinnamon. It's always there, that little bit of flavor, of _Ron_, whether he's just stepped off the pitch or out of the shower.

She watches him sleeping peacefully for a moment, her thin fingers playing with his chest hair, sliding her palm across his stomach to touch his morning erection. She'd hoped for one last bout of love-making last night, but Ron had passed out the moment his head hit the pillow, exhausted.

_But he seems to have recovered_. She starts touching him, playfully, running the back of her nails along his length before slipping down to fondle the weight of his bollocks. She smirks wickedly when he twitches, wondering if she can get him off without waking him

She's pumps him slowly, languidly, feeling her own arousal increase the more she touches him.

"Couldn't even wait for me to wake up?" Hermione jumps at the sound of Ron's voice, her hand instinctively clenching around his cock. Ron yelps. "Merlin's sweaty arse! Don't break the bloody thing!"

"Sorry," she mutters, loosening her grip without letting go, looking anywhere but his face.

"If my mum knew how much we you wanted me, she'd _definitely _think you were after a baby," he jokes, lifting her chin to kiss her lips softly. "Or that you're a sex addict," he adds, smirking. The memory of Harry's question from the day before _does _get her to let go of Ron, frowning. "What is it?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "It's nothing. And don't you _dare _call me a sex addict. I'm just a…Ron Weasley addict," she says, climbing on top of him so their bodies are flush, trapping their heat between them, before kissing him again.

He breaks off after several moments. "Merlin, is that the time?" She turns to look at the clock and feels Ron unceremoniously shove her to the side before jumping off the bed and running to the loo.

She lets out a 'hmph' and sits up to pull her messy hair back, tying it into a knot while she hears him turn on the shower.

"Don't suppose you'd care to join me?" he calls out over the sound of running water.

"No thank you. I wouldn't want to make you late. You'll just have to scrub your own back," Hermione calls back smugly, a little bothered at his rejection. She reaches for a pad and quill she keeps on the bedside table and starts scribbling a note, her annoyance melting into love until a smile returns to her face. She sets it down and gets up, pulling on a dressing gown.

She walks to the kitchen and does her best to fix him something to eat, laying the eggs and toast out on the counter before heading to the bedroom to help him finish packing.

When he leaves the room, she rips the note from the pad and slides it into the breast pocket of one of his shirts before stowing it into his bag.

* * *

She walks back inside their home long after Ron has disappeared, shutting the door behind her. Her arms wrap tightly around herself as she walks through the flat, surveying they life they share together. She stops as her eyes settle on the door to her office for a moment before shaking her head and heading to the bedroom. She walks to the bed and looks down at the present Ron has left for her, wrapped so neatly she wonders if he had his mother do it for him. She smiles and gently picks it up, as if the unknown contents were already precious to her and sets it on a chair in the corner. She takes one last tempting look at it before walking to the closet. She hangs up the dressing gown and strips out of her knickers to throw on a running bra and shorts.

Ten minutes later she's jogging toward the park, half-cursing her decision. It's cold and windy and the sky looks set to start raining at any moment. Her legs are sore and her whole body aches from Ron's treatment the last few nights—not that blames him.

She started running about a few years ago, right after Ron signed with the Cannons. It had finally struck her that the life of a bookworm writer wasn't very conducive to one's figure…unless that figure had a nice wide arse and a big potbelly. She wasn't sixteen anymore, always chasing after Ron and Harry on some adventure or running from Death Eaters. Now the boys just chased each other, rarely inviting her along.

And Harry teaching Ron how to cook hadn't helped things either; with run of the kitchen, he usually made the sort of foods _he_ enjoyed, which meant loads of fats and sugars. Not to mention he always made enough to feed every Gryffindor in their year. It was fine for him to eat enough to feed an entire family of four, but he got to work it all off with Quidditch, while she just sat around with a full belly, like she was preparing to hibernate.

But she'd noticed she was running more frequently since Ron had signed the transfer to the Tornados: instead of just once or twice a week she was running nearly every day.

She knew the reason why too. She was just trying to keep up—or rather, trying to help Ron keep up—with his new teammates, most of whom seemed to be dating models and celebrities—the kinds of women featured in Gladrags catalogues wearing the latest fashions from Milan and Athens, not the ones who _wrote _articles about those fashions. And she resented feeling like she—_they_—had something to prove to them, to prove that Ron fit with the team, that he belonged in their world.

But the part that bothered her the most is that Ron didn't seem to care. When she'd started running, she'd hoped Ron might join her, that it could be something they could do together. But he seemed perfectly content to put up his feet when they weren't wrapped around a broomstick. He'd told her they could go flying together—something she absolutely refused to do—but said that running "just wasn't for Ron Weasley."

In fact, he rarely wanted to _do _anything. Ron was perfectly content stay home most nights, spending it in front of the telly or in bed with her. And when he did manage to get his arse out of the house, it was to visit his family or goof off with Harry or because someone had told him about these things Muggles had called _water parks_ which sounded like a total gas to him and made him want to see one for himself.

He rebuffed her offers to visit museums or the theatre or anything that involved _culture _of any sort. When they went on holiday, he only saw it as an excuse to see how many times he could get laid in one weekend—not that she complained about the _results_, but they could've just stayed home and done that in their _own _bed and saved themselves a few hundred galleons and all the trouble of packing and planning. Even when they went out to eat it was always to the Leaky Cauldron or the handful of Muggle restaurants he approved of. Ron was just rather set in his ways, and she'd long given up trying to change his mind.

The rain starts before she even reaches the park and after a pitiful attempt to press on, Hermione turns around and returns to the flat, completely soaked through by the time she reaches the safety of the indoors.

After peeling the wet clothes from her body and a long, hot shower, she stands before the mirror in their bedroom, turning sideways to appraise herself, her hands sliding down the gentle slope of her soft belly, a slight frown marring her countenance. She pads softly to the closet and grabs a pair of sweats and one of Ron's old shirts after a moment's considering, unable to fool herself into thinking she'll have any reason to leave the house again for the rest of the day.

Not bothering to try cooking without Ron around to appreciate her effort, she takes some cantaloupe from the ice box and fixes a plate, taking it with her into the office with a heavy sigh. She picks at her food, nibbling for ages on each piece as she looks over all her notes for the article. She gets up and goes to wash her hands before returning to finally pick up the quill and start writing.

A half-hour later she has her article, detailing the sleek design of the cloaks and the assortment of colors available for the Veela hair trim, hinting that any woman who owned one this season would be as appealing as a _real_ Veela. Utter shite as Ron would call it.

Not that he would _ever _say so to her face; he's read everything she's ever written, even making a record book full of her clippings covering her entire career, and has _never _been anything less than absolutely praising about them—including one piece she'd been commissioned to write arguing the merits of using dragon dung in witches' make-up which she herself couldn't read without laughing at how ridiculous it was.

It was sweet, and she knew he meant well by it, but it made her wonder if he meant it when she _did _write something she was proud of…not that there'd been many such occasions lately. After her book came out, she'd started writing articles protesting the unjust treatment of non-humans like werewolves and house-elves by wizards. Between her status as a war hero and the albeit short burst of popularity she received from having her book published, she'd been a big enough figure in the eyes of the public that people had paid attention to what she said and wrote. She'd known if anything was to be done the first step was changing the minds of those causing the oppression.

There'd been a few murmurs of agreement in the magical world, but without the Ministry to follow up on any of her ideas or proposals, interest had quickly evaporated. So she'd turned to writing articles about magical society, which were much more popular, to help bring in more money while Ron was still a rookie and only making a pittance of a salary. Eventually she'd delved deeper and deeper into what she considered the dregs of culture and now here she sat, writing about the Which Witch? fashion show and Madam Primpernelle's Beautifying Potions and Gladrags and even WonderWitch, now so popular that George had turned it into an its own enterprise entirely separate from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. For a time she'd continued to write about things that actually mattered to her, but it had been over a year since her last S.P.E.W. article; even the Quibbler told her printing that sort of article was wasted parchment.

Hermione rubs her eyes before slipping the article into an envelope and going off in search of Pig, leaving her plate behind for Crookshanks to lick clean of sticky fruit juice.

"Come here, you twittering fuzz ball," she says, snatching at the small owl circling her head, finally catching him and holding him down to attach the letter, hoping Gladrags will be pleased that she finished the piece a day ahead of schedule. Carrying Pig to the window, she tosses him into the wind before turning back to survey the flat once again. Somehow it looks even emptier than it did that morning.

Her thoughts turn to Ron, wondering if he's settled in alright, if she should call to make sure he hasn't forgotten something, but move quickly to Ginny after realizing he probably doesn't have his mobile with him—wherever he is at the moment. She thinks about Floo-ing over to see her friend, but decides against it when she remembers James.

Instead, she goes about picking up the apartment, sweeping the floor and dusting her bookcases—all without magic. It still doesn't take as long as she'd like and soon she finds herself back in the office, Crookshanks on her lap, both of them staring down at the writing before her. It's been so long, she can't even tell if she's almost finished or barely started. The telephone rings and she jumps up, thankful for the interruption.

"Hello? Weasley-Granger residence," she says excitedly into the receiver.

"Hi sweetheart. Not catching you at a bad time am I?"

Hermione smiles. "No, Mum. I was just taking a break from writing actually."

"Not working too hard, I hope? I know how you can get, dear."

Hermione wincs at the sound of her mother's tone, full of pride for her daughter. "No, just trying to keep busy. Ron left this morning."

"Oh that boy and his football."

"Quidditch, Mum. It's played on brooms and there are four balls that fly around and—"

"I didn't _mean_ anything by it sweetheart. You know I'm useless about sports. It's wonderful he has such a talent. How long is he gone for?"

"All week," she says glumly.

"And he's left you all _alone_?"

"It's his _job _Mother. He has to go. Besides, I'm not alone; I've got Crookshanks and Pig."

"A cat and a bird? Goodness you sound like an old spinster, or whatever the equivalent is among witches."

Hermione rolls her eyes, not needing the reminder. "We still call them spinsters, Mum."

"Well you'll have to come have dinner with your father and I one night. I'll fix all your favorites. I can't just let you starve now can I?"

She didn't need _that _reminder either. "Look, Mum, I've got to get back to work. I have this piece to write and the deadline's tomorrow and—"

"Alright, alright, I'll let you go. But you call me tomorrow after your article's finished so you can tell me when you're free."

"I will Mum," Hermione says, eager to end the conversation.

"I love you sweetheart."

"Love you too Mum."

Hermione hung up telephone, finding Crookshanks perched on the counter, staring at her.

"What?" Hermione snaps. "It wasn't a _complete_ lie." Crookshanks twitched his tail disapprovingly. "Oh don't look at me like that," she says, picking him up off the counter. "I suppose I should at least _try _to get something done." She lets out a despondent, realizing she's talking to a cat. _Maybe Mum was right to worry about the spinster-thing._

Cradling the ginger cat in one arm, she takes out a bottle of Bordeaux and an empty glass and returns to the office, locking the door behind her.

* * *

Hermione takes a sip of wine, picks up her quill, sets it back down and scratches Crookshanks' ears. She takes another sip, a longer one and looks at her mobile lain on the desk as if daring it to ring. She takes another sip, a small one this time, and leans back in her seat and closes her eyes. Her progress would tell you she's working for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, but the darkened sky outside her window and the near-empty bottle of Bordeaux tell a different story.

Her eyes snap open and in a flurry of activity she jots down fifteen lines her editor would refer to as 'dribble.' But it's something. _Enough for now_. She polishes off her glass and goes to refill but only finds enough for one, perhaps two mouthfuls. She leans her head back, her sudden break in malaise making her head feel woozy. _Ten minutes_, she thinks as she shuts her eyes. _Just ten minutes. Then I'll clean up and go to bed_.

Hermione wakes at quarter past four, her head pounding. Her eyes immediately go to her mobile and see that Ron has called, but left no message. She sighs, stands and scoops up Crookshanks before finishing the last two swallows of Bordeaux in one go and dragging her feet to the bedroom.

* * *

**A/N: **Okay, not the most exciting or engaging of chapters, I know. But it's totally necessary, I promise. This story lives on dialogue and there just wasn't a lot of opportunity for that here. It's one of the reasons why I took so long in posting this chapter because I tried to think of ways to make this one more exciting. But everything I came up with just completely changed the mood of it. Thankfully we'll be back with Ron next chapter and the excitement of the first match of the tournament.

Also, before anyone bites my head off, NO I am not turning Hermione into some superficial bimbo who cares about looks and appearances. But she is twenty-four, almost twenty-five and since most of my friends and I are about that age I've seen firsthand that these things DO matter at times to even the most confident, well-adjusted people. As I mentioned at the beginning of this fic, Ron and Hermione are meant to be exaggerated caricatures of their younger selves and younger Hermione WAS insecure about her looks at times. And I'm not turning her into an alcoholic either for those worried about the last scene.


End file.
